Michele, Ma Belle
by HpVamp
Summary: Max returned to New York City after the war a broken man. What he didn't expect was to be mended by a shy French-American girl named Michele.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

"_Michele, why do you do thees Michele? Why you want to leave me?_"

Michele Daurier shook her head to rid herself of her mother's words, ringing in her ears in broken English.

"_Look Mama, it's time for me to go. Time for me to be a real American!_"

She pushed open the door to the New York City apartment building, which smelled vaguely of garbage and was probably infested with rodents.

"_Ay, Michele, you think what we do is not real? Why can't you be French too?_"

She peered up the stairwell, taking a deep breath and sighing. The room was eight flights up - time to start climbing.

"Because being French isn't who I am," she said quietly to herself. Even using the lowest of whispers, the words seemed to echo through the building. "I am American. I've been American ever since James died."

She brushed her long blonde mane out of her eyes and rolled up her sleeves. The fabric of her blue button-up seemed heavy against her hot skin - it was the middle of summer in New York, and she felt as if she had never endured weather so scorching. Her carpet bag weighed what seemed like a ton, and her camera, which hung loosely around her neck, slammed against her body like a pendulum. When she finally reached the eighth floor, she had embarrassingly sweat through her shirt, and the sides of her face were wet with perspiration.

She edged toward the door that read 803. It seemed to be on its last leg, as if when she knocked on it, it would fall over. There was loud music coming from behind it, rock music, heavy with guitars. There were butterflies in the pit of her stomach - this was her ticket away from home, and she didn't want to screw it up. She made a fist and raised her arm to eye level, and gently knocked on the door.

There was no answer for a few moments, and no sign of any kind of movement from behind the door. She raised her arm and knocked again, this time a bit harder. "Hello," she asked, setting her bag on the ground for a moment, "My name's Michele Daurier. I called about renting the room...?" The music on the other side decreased in volume, and a pair of heavy boots dropped to the door. There was the noise of locks being unlocked, and the owner of the boots yanked on the door, which did not open. There was an annoyed exclamation of, "_Shit!_", as the owner, who Michele could now identify as a woman, wrestled with the door for a few more seconds. Finally, the woman said, "_Max, would you be so kind as to get off your ass and help me with the door?_" There was an annoyed groan, this time male, as another pair of shoes slid apathetically toward the door. Another lock came undone, and the man said, "_Sadie, you've gotta be smarter than the average apartment door._" There was a chuckle, and finally, the door opened.

Michele stood there with a shy smile on her face, her carpet bag and camera in tow. In the door frame stood a curvaceous but friendly looking woman with a mop of curly red hair piled up on top of her head. She was wearing what could only be described as a kimono-bathrobe, and purple cowboy boots to match. Beside her stood a young man about Michele's age, his long blonde hair falling just above his striking blue eyes. He looked hungover, and sported a five o'clock shadow that he'd probably been working on for about a week.

"Um, hi," said Michele timidly, extending her hand, "Michele Daurier. I called about the room."

The woman called Sadie smiled and shook her hand gently. "It's a pleasure to meet you darlin,'" she said, brushing back her locks behind her ears. "My name's Sadie. It's nice to have such a nice girl like yourself inquire for the room. You wouldn't believe the kind of people hang out here." She elbowed the young man in the side. "Well don't just stand there gaping, Max. Introduce yourself."

He looked as if he had been in a trance for as long as the door had been open. He was staring somewhere above Michele's head - the boy couldn't have been more hungover if he tried. At Sadie's playful elbow, he jumped, then lowered his gaze to Michele and smiled. "It's nice to meet you, Michele. I'm Max," he said, giving her a saccharine wink. She laughed a bit - he may have been handsome, but she knew to be wary of boys like him.

Sadie rolled her eyes at him, and took Michele's arm. "Come on," she said, "let me just show you around a bit."

They stepped inside and Michele peered around the room. It was old, that was for sure - cracks ran up the walls and water stains lined the ceiling, but it certainly was homey. A young couple lounged on the couch, his arm draped over her side. She was pretty, young looking, with long blonde hair that reached past her shoulders. He couldn't have been much older, and looked as if he needed a hair cut and a shave just as much as Max.

"This is Lucy and Jude," said Sadie, gesturing to them. "This is who you've got to thank for the extra room opening up. They'll be moving out any day now."

Michele turned around, a feeling of worry spreading over her. "...any day..?" She asked timidly. "But...I don't have anywhere else to go. How long will it - "

Sadie's laugh stopped her short. "Don't worry sweetheart. If that's really the case, you can stay in one of our rooms until they're gone."

"My room's open," interjected Max, almost seductively. "There's plenty of room for a couch. Or you know, we could just share the mattress."

Michele shot him a scowl. "I think I'll just sleep out here, thanks," she said menacingly, then turned to Sadie. "You said there was an extra closet that could be turned into a dark room. Can I see it?"

She smiled. "Oh, that's right! You're the photographer aren't you?"

Before Michele could answer, Max jumped in. "Photography huh? That's pretty cool. What's your subject matter?" He sounded sweeter, as if he had realized his previous intrusion.

She turned to him. "People mostly," she said, taking the camera from around her neck. "But not like portraits or anything. More like candid stuff. I took a few on the train on my way over here actually. I've been dying to see how they turned out." She turned back to Sadie, who had already opened a small door in the corner of the room. There was a bare lightbulb inside, which illuminated the small expanse of the empty room. Michele smiled. "It's perfect," she said, then added, "I'll just sleep on the floor in there for the time being. I don't want to inconvenience anyone."

"Oh honey," said Sadie, "it's really no problem. Are you sure you wanna stuff yourself in there like that?"

Michele laughed. "I'm French. I don't have a problem with cramped rooms." She picked up her carpet bag and set it down in the closet.

"Is that where that accent's from?" Asked Max, inching closer toward the closet. "I mean...not that you really have one, I just...you know. Noticed."

Michele smiled slightly at his valiant attempt at getting to know her. "My parents are French, but I was born here. In Boston. They didn't really see a point in sticking around a demolished country after the war, so they left. Very un-French of them, really." He laughed at her joke, perhaps longer than he should have, which brought on an awkward pause. Michele chuckled a little at him - in an odd sort of way, he was kind of charming.

Sadie cleared her throat. "Well, I've got a gig I have to get ready for," she said, turning on her heels. "Michele, make yourself comfortable. Let me know if you need anything." She turned the corner and was gone, a door closing behind her.

Michele looked back at Max, who was now standing even closer to the closet door. "So, is it safe to assume you speak French then?" He asked, resting an arm on the door frame.

She unzipped her carpet bag and began removing her things from it. "That is a safe assumption, yes. I grew up speaking it in the home."

There was a bit of a pause as Max chuckled again. "Where were you last summer?"

She looked up at him, confused by his last statement. He was staring wistfully at nothing, then shook his head when he realized how odd she must think him. "I was drafted last summer," he said, his blue eyes boring into hers, "and I served for a bit until I was injured and sent home. When I was over there, fighting, I thought to myself, 'I should have just moved to Quebec.' But dammit, I couldn't speak French." His last statement seemed to snap him back to reality, and the joyous light returned to his eyes, covering up the slight sadness. "But that's hardly a topic worth discussing," he said with a smile. "Please, if you need anything, anything at all, my room is just around the corner." There was a pause as she stared at him for a moment, then he turned away, and left hurriedly.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Eleanor Rigby

It was day four in the Manhattan apartment, and life had never been crazier for Michele. Lucy and Jude had moved out as promised, but even so, living conditions were not were parties every night, beer bottle left for someone to fall over, weed smoke lingering on the fabric of the couches. She had never seen such insane parties, not even when she had visited her cousins in Paris. One thing could be said of the life there, however - the photographs that came out of it were absolutely priceless, some of the best Michele had ever taken.

In the middle of all this insanity was Max, the life of the party and ultimate ring-leader. He drank like a fish and smoked like a chimney, and took a different girl to bed with him every night. He was loud and obnoxious, and put the moves on Michele like there was no tomorrow. As much as she hated his idiocy, she couldn't help but feel sorry for him - she knew what had happened to him, and knew that he was lucky to be alive. Who was she to judge?

One morning after another one of these raging parties, as Michele was developing photos in her dark room, there was a knock on the door. "Come in," she said, wiping the sweat from her brow, "but do it quickly. I don't want anything ruined."

The door opened quickly and a shape pushed through the blanket she had hung from the door frame. It was Max, looking as crazed as ever, in only his bathrobe and boxers. He leaned against the door, panting a bit.

"What's wrong?" Asked Michele, laughing a bit.

He said nothing for a moment, pressing an ear to the door to listen for movement. "Did you hear someone walking around out there?" He asked, flustered. She stared at him, puzzled, and he sighed. "I slept with some girl last night, and she was absolutely psychotic. She had some weird fetishes or something, I don't know, it was weird." He turned back around to her. "Anyway, I'm hiding."

Michele nodded slowly. "I see. Well, just stay out of the way and don't shine any light in here and you can hide for as long as you'd like." She hung a photo on the line with two clothespins, then stepped back for a moment to examine it. It was from a series of photos she had taken at a church down the street, of its faithful patrons. This photo was of an old woman, one who hadn't missed a single sermon or event that took place there.

_I look at all the lonely people_

Max inched closer to the photo, studying it as well. "Who's she?"

Michele shrugged. "Her name's Eleanor. Eleanor Rigby. I asked her. She's just about the saddest person you've ever met in your life." She pointed to the rice in the aisle, her finger hovering just above the surface of the shiny photograph. "She was picking up the rice from a wedding that had just been there. And she hadn't even been invited."

_Eleanor Rigby picks up the rice in a church where a wedding has been,_

_Lives in a dream,_

_Waits at the window wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door_

_Who is it for?_

_All the lonely people, where do they all come from?_

_All the lonely people, where do they all belong?_

Michele hung up another photo, this time of a priest. "Father McKenzie," she said, shaking her head a bit. "The only person that regularly attends his sermons is Eleanor Rigby."

Michele wouldn't admit just how much she identified with the subjects of her photographs. She felt lonely, just as they did. Ever since James had died...

"It must be something," said Michele. "To live as they do. Only, they don't really live, they just...drift through life like the breeze or something."

She turned to Max who was staring at her with big, sad eyes. "Something," he said, leaning into her slowly. She turned away slightly, staring down at the floor. _This wasn't the time,this wasn't the man_, she thought to herself.

"I...I'm sorry," he said, his face turning a shade of pink visible even in the darkened room. "I shouldn't have done that." He turned and left hurriedly, her shouts of protest and pity falling on deaf ears.

Max was drunk. Again. Only this time, he was practically uncontrollable.

Michelle sat in a corner, conversing quietly with Sadie and Joe, her lead guitarist, when Max stumbled over, screaming obscenities and falling over his own feet.

"Michele," he said in slurred speech, a toothy grin spread over his face, "Michelle...I want to ask you something." He set his beer on the table, falling into her slightly and resting his hands on her knees. "Michele...would you dance with me? Please?"

Joe laid a hand on Max's shoulder. "Max, maybe you should sober up a bit before you ask the lady to dance." He looked over at Michele, who smiled at him slightly. "It's alright Joe," she said, "we can dance." She set her beer down as well, then stood up to lead him to the dance floor.

His grip tightened on hers as he swung her around until they were facing each other. He slid his arms around her waist, pulling her in much closer than was needed or polite. She cleared her throat to show how uncomfortable she was, but he did not comply. She shot Joe a look of discomfort, but he merely shrugged and laughed. She draped her arms around his shoulders, and turned back to him - he was staring straight down her blouse.

"Max," she sighed, lifting his chin to her eye level, "don't you think we should move to the beat or...something?"

He laughed for an incredibly long amount of time. "Oh, yeah," he said between spurts of laughter, "I guess that is what I asked you up here for isn't it? I forgot." He slid a hand over her buttocks, and she immediately broke free of his embrace. "Forget it!" She said, exasperated.

She hadn't gotten very far before Max had caught her by the hand. "I'm sorry," he said, trying to suppress his grin. "That was stupid...please..." he pulled her back towards him, once again sliding his arms around her waist. She rolled her eyes and sighed, once again resting her arms on his shoulders.

An awkward dance of epic proportions followed. Max was off beat most of the time, and stumbled even with Michele keeping him upright. What was even more awkward than the movement was the conversation:

"Michele, you're pretty."

"Thank you Max."

"Really, just really beautiful. Are your tits real?"

"Yes Max. You can stop staring at them now that that mystery is solved."

"Ha. Yeah I guess I have been staring at them."

"Yep."

"Your hair is really soft too. Like a foxtail. No, it's better than a foxtail. It's a foxtail from the farthest reaches of Nirvana."

"...Max, have you been smoking something? Or did you take any pills?"

"Kaleidoscope eyes..."

"What the hell are you even saying?"

Max paused and swayed from side to side, looking as if he would fall at any moment. He steadied himself on Michele, resting his head and most of his body weight on her shoulder. "Nice, lovely people," he said into her blouse.

She sighed and patted his cheek lightly. "Alright, I think you've had enough for tonight," she said, turning him around and walking him slowly into his room. He protested, or she thought he did, but it really only came out as gargles and mumbles.

Sadie rushed over to them, an amused but concerned look spread across her face. "Need help? This one can get a little surly when he's wasted."

Michele smiled and shook her head. "I can handle him," she said, running a gentle hand over his blonde mop-top, "I've dealt with plenty of nasty drunks in my day."

When they reached the bedroom, Michele shut the door behind her. She sat Max down on the bed, propping him up in a sitting position. His head rolled back to one side, and she took his face in her hands to speak to him.

"Hey," she said, gently patting his cheek a second time, "HEY. It's time to pay attention. What do you sleep in?"

He looked at her, his blue eyes trying desperately to focus on her face, but failing. "...what? Oh..." his head fell backwards again, and Michele again took his face in her hands. "Jeans," he said, "I sleep in jeans." He began falling backwards and pulling back the sheets, but Michele wouldn't allow it.

"You do NOT sleep in jeans," she said. "Nobody sleeps in jeans. Are you wearing underwear?"

He laughed. "Why do you need to know, my little French croissant? My little baguette..." He fell over again.

"Jesus Christ," she muttered, undoing the top button of his jeans and unzipping them. He smiled at this, making a pathetic attempt at a sexual remark. She grabbed the hem of his pants and slid them off, screwing up her eyelids and preparing herself for the worst, but it did not come. Max was, in fact, wearing underwear.

"There," she said, folding the the jeans and placing them on his nightstand, "now you're ready to sleep this all off." She pulled the sheets back and managed to push his legs underneath, then retrieved a bucket for him to vomit in from the bathroom. By the time she was ready to leave, Max was completely still and laying sideways with half-lidded eyes. She chuckled a bit, then turned to leave, but he caught her wrist.

"You're a good friend, Kevin," he said, his eyes still half-lidded, his face completely solemn. "One of the best I've ever had. I'm glad that I have you to stomp around this fucking jungle with." His eyes closed slowly and his hand fell from her wrist and to the bed.

Despite his drunken antics, she couldn't bring herself to dislike him. _God bless this poor boy_, she thought to herself. She leaned down and gently kissed his temple, and she could have sworn that she saw him smile.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

At noon the next day, Max still wasn't awake. Michele checked up on him a few times, checked to make sure he was still breathing. He hadn't moved from the spot she left him in, and his mouth hung open against the white cotton pillow. Amazingly, they were the only two living things in the apartment. The party guests had left in the hours before, and Sadie and Joe were at some kind of meeting with her record label. Michele was aroused early by the sound of sirens just below her window, and had felt restless. She went out and purchased groceries, or rather, food that would soak up the toxins left from a night of insanity.

When she returned, she set out to make a full breakfast. What Max had said to her in his apparent flashback had made her pity him even more than she had before. She understood why he acted the way he did, the alcohol, the drugs, the women. It was time for her to be a more sympathetic person, starting this afternoon.

As the eggs were frying, Max finally emerged from his bat cave. He was still in his boxers and shirt from the night before, and he shielded his eyes from the intrusion of the sun. He sat down at the kitchen table, massaging his temples and lower back.

"Good morning," she said to him, not looking up from her skillet. "Had a little too much fun last night, did we?"

He laughed slightly. "I don't know, did I?"

She laughed as well. "Max, I put you to bed last night. And not in a sexual way. More like in a 'he's going to vomit at any moment and is becoming a hazard to himself and those around him' kind of way."

He rested his head in his hands, his face fixed in an "I'm sorry" stare. "My God, I am so sorry Michele. I don't remember any of that."

She retrieved a plate from the cabinet and dished out the eggs from the skillet, as well as bacon and toast from a plate on the counter. She set it down in front of him, and sat down herself. "Well," she began, pouring him a glass of orange juice, "I don't know that any of it was really worth remembering."

There was a pause as he moved his gaze to her eyes. "Yes there was," he said. "You kissed me, didn't you?"

She said nothing for a moment, breaking his gaze and blushing. "I may have," she said finally, getting up from the table and cleaning the skillet that had already been cleaned. She set it in the sink, then paused again to stare out the window. "You...you had a bad dream," she said finally, solemnly. "I thought I could help somehow."

He nodded, staring down at his food. "Oh. One of those," he said. "I hope I didn't scare you."

She whirled around, worried that she had hurt him. "No, no, not at all!" She said, closing the gap between them and laying a hand on his arm. "I know what it's like Max. To come back from that. Maybe not first hand but...I know. I just wanted you to know that you weren't alone, that's all."

She squeezed his hand and smiled as he stared up at her, almost with child-like eyes. She let go after a few moments, after the awkwardness of holding hands had set in, and went back to her dishes. There was a pause for a few moments, for what seemed like hours.

"Thank you for breakfast," Max said, "and everything else."

Hours later, and Michele and Max were still alone in the apartment. It had begun to rain rather hard, and both had agreed upon nixing the possibility of going out. They sat across from each other in the living room, laughing and getting to know each other. Max spoke endlessly about the resentment of his parents, having to endure an entire year at Princeton, meeting Jude for the first time, his experience in the war. It was sad and entertaining, made her laugh and want to cry all at the same time.

"So what about you, Miss Daurier," Max asked finally, resting his head on his arm. "What's your story? I feel as if I know nothing about you."

She laughed a little, staring down at the couch. "That's not entirely true. I mean, I told you that I - "

"Grew up in Boston in a French family that left the country after the war, yeah yeah, I got that. But besides that, all I have is a name."

There was a pause. "I'm a private person. I guess I don't really divulge that much information too often." She traced a finger over the couch, staring out the window at the rain, then back at Max. "I was an only child growing up. Besides being the child of my insane French parents, I was the perfect picture of being average. Really Max, my life isn't that interesting."

She laughed nervously, and he smiled a bit. "I don't care. I want to hear about it. I love normalcy."

"I said it wasn't interesting, I didn't say it was normal," she stared down at the couch again. "I don't know, I took dance, I got into photography, graduated high school. I wanted to go to college, but I didn't have the money."

Max laughed. "There has to be something you're not telling me. Alright, first boyfriend. What was he like?"

She smiled. "James O'Brien," she sighed. "One of the greatest football players Boston had ever seen. He was tall. Handsome." She laughed again. "His only imperfection was a scar on his cheek he got when he tried to sneak into my room one night. He was perfect. Just about the loveliest boy you've ever met."

He sank into the couch, smiling mischeviously. "So what happened with Mr. Right?"

Michele's smile faded instantly, and she stared out the window again. "He died."

Max's smile went slack as well. "Shit I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked..."

She shook her head. "It's alright, you didn't know."

"Can I ask what happened?"

She ran a hand through her hair and swallowed hard. "You can ask, but I'm not sure I even know. He...well, he went to Vietnam, and he served his time, won some kind of medal, I don't know." She wiped a tear that had begun to trickle down her cheek. "He was discharged after he lost his arm, and he came home, but he was different. Violent." Another tear. "He didn't want to be around me, he didn't want to be around anyone, he'd just lash out at everyone." Max sat down beside her on the couch and draped an arm over her, his eyes wide and full of understanding. "Finally I just stopped trying. And not too long after, he...he hung himself in his bathroom."

She broke down, leaning her head into Max's chest, and he smoothed her hair gently behind her ears. "It's alright," he said softly, "you couldn't have known..."

She stopped for a moment and straightened up. "Now you know," she said, swallowing her tears. "Now you know why I can't...why I can't let you in..." She dabbed at her eyes, then stared deeply into his. Just as quickly as her breakdown had begun, it ended. "But I understand...I want to help you, but I don't know how..." Staring at him, something inside her softened, and she slowly leaned in to kiss him...

Their moment was stopped short by the sound of the door opening, accompanied by the sound of Sadie and Joe speaking loudly of their meeting. Michele broke eye contact with Max. "I have some photos I need to develop," she said, then left him alone on the couch.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"Look, I just can't hire someone without the right credentials. I mean these photos are great, but you have no degree. How do I know you're reliable?"

"Please, just give me a chance, you won't be disappointed!"

"I'm sorry Miss Daurier, but I can't."

It had only been two weeks since her parents had cut her off, and Michele's life had taken a turn for the impoverished. It was time to be a big girl and get a job. If only she could stop this never ending soundtrack of 'I can't.' This was the fourth paper this week that had turned her down as a photographer, staff or otherwise. Because she didn't have a degree, they couldn't use her.

As she exited the office building, she was accosted by a hobo in what appeared to be army fatigues. "Hey pretty lady," he said, a smile revealing a missing front tooth, "why don't you follow me to the back, show me a good time." She flashed him a look of disgust, and hurried down the stairs. "Hey!" He yelled after her angrily. "I'm a veteran! It's the least someone could do for me!"

As she ran, she didn't realize how close to the street corner she had gotten. A Bentley sped by, splashing muddy water all over her pants suit - her only one to speak of. "Watch where you're going, _sweetheart_!" Yelled the driver sarcastically, then laughed heartily. "ASSHOLE!" She screamed, her voice shaking with welling tears.

She crossed the street, taking a seat on a granite fountain ledge. She was lost, and had no idea where the nearest subway station was, nor money to pay for it. She took a deep breath and swallowed, running a hand through her long blonde mane. It was getting dark, and she was alone in a crime-infested city.

_I read the news today oh boy  
About a lucky man who made the grade  
And though the news was rather sad  
Well I just had to laugh  
I saw the photograph  
He blew his mind out in a car  
He didn't notice that the lights had changed  
A crowd of people stood and stared  
They'd seen his face before  
Nobody was really sure  
If he was from the House of Lords._

Somewhere, in a lonely taxi cab across town, Max sat, sitting, thinking about Michele. When he was without her, out of the apartment, something felt wrong. He sighed, wondering if perhaps she was thinking about him.

_Woke up, fell out of bed,  
Dragged a comb across my head  
Found my way downstairs and drank a cup,  
And looking up I noticed I was late.  
Found my coat and grabbed my hat  
Made the bus in seconds flat  
Found my way upstairs and had a smoke,  
and Somebody spoke and I went into a dream_

_Oh, I'd love to turn you on_

Michele sighed, then peered around the block. There were only unfriendly businessman, no one she could ask for help. _Well,_ she thought, _I guess I should start walking._

She wandered up and down the streets, peering inside of buildings, looking for a friendly face. Slowly, the buildings became abandoned, the faces even less friendly, and the streets darker and meaner. She heard what she thought was a gunshot. Another hobo, this one even less friendly than the first, shouted an insult at her, trying to grab the hem of her pants. She let out a tiny yelp, then broke into a run. A man, large and covered in tattoos, jumped out in front of her.

"Need a little help, beautiful?" He asked, his teeth bared in an awful smile. He pulled a gun on her, and she backed away. "Give me all your money. In fact, just give me that purse."

Michele began to cry. "Please, I don't really have any-"

"And that camera too, while you're at it," he held out his hand in a 'gimme' fashion, "now, or you'll be eating lead."

With a little sob, Michele handed over her purse and her life, her precious camera. "Thanks kid," said the mugger, then turned and disappeared as quickly as he had appeared.

Michele wandered farther and farther, clutching her arms. It was getting cold now, and to her, it felt like ice. Eventually, she came to a strip club, its neon lights and music blazing. Gritty and horrible men stood outside, eyeing her greedily. Her eyes moved upwards towards the sign: Kat Skratch Klub. Normally, she would have avoided this place at all costs, but right now, she needed a phone more than anything else.

She staggered inside, peering around for a pay phone. There were only women, what seemed like hundreds of them, sliding up and down metal poles in skimpy clothing and sitting in the laps of those gritty men that waited outside. The women smiled at them, allowed them to touch, but their eyes were stone cold and dead. Michele shivered.

She stepped timidly to the bar and flagged down the bar tender, a hard looking man with a handle bar moustache, not unlike the one that had just mugged her. "Um...excuse me? Do you have a phone I could use?"

He stared at her for a moment, taking a drag off his cigarette. "The phone's for customers only. You uh...looking for a job?" He smiled that terrible smile she had seen too often today, giving her the up-down scan. "You have nice tits. You could make plenty of money."

She scoffed, flashing him the evil eye. "As if I would EVER lower myself to working in this hell hole. Thanks for all your help," she yelled angrily, turning and heading for the door. As she emerged from the club, another man outside smiled at her, reaching for her breasts. She rushed back inside, realizing what kind of neighborhood and predicament she was in, and also, that she needed to vomit.

She pushed to the back of the club, rushing into the women's restroom, her brow sweating profusely. She knelt on the dirt floor and emptied the contents of her stomach into the toilet. She peered up at the flourescent bulbs, flashing on and off as if they were ready to burn out at any moment.

_You know it's gonna be alright_

_It's gonna be alright_

She wiped the sweat from her brow and rested her head her in hands. She sat there for a moment on the filthy floor, formulating a plan that would somehow help her stay alive tonight. There was nothing she could possibly do but take refuge in this bathroom and hope that someone would come and find her. Maybe by the grace of God, Max would come and find her, and scoop her into his arms and tell her that everything was going to be alright.

She slowly stood up, pushing open the stall door that wouldn't lock. She staggered over to the sink and stared at herself in the mirror. Pale as a ghost. She splashed some water on her face, and cleared the vomit from her nose. She took a deep breath and leaned on the sink, a tear finally falling down her cheek.

The bathroom door swung open and her trance was broken. Two women, who she could only presume were strippers, came limping into the bathroom, their stiletto heels in their hands.

"Girl, I'll tell you what, if that jive turkey come in here and put his hands all up on me again, I swear I'll just...oh.." the stripper had caught sight of Michele, who was doing everything she possibly could to not make eye contact. "Honey, are you alright? You looked like something the cat dragged in." She was an older African-American woman, but thin as a rail, with large brown eyes that used to sparkle, but didn't anymore. Her long fingernails were painted green, which matched her bra-miniskirt combo.

Michele looked up at her. "Hmm?" She asked, looking around. "Are you talking to me?"

"Of course we're talking to you. Ain't nobody else in here."

The other stripper, a red head with a boyish pixie cut, laughed at her joke. She wore something similar to the other woman, but in white, and was one of the tallest women Michele had ever seen. Her face was sharp, and her muscles her well toned. She almost looked like...a man. Yeah, she was a man.

"I'm Vanessa," said the black woman, "and this is Candy." She gestured to the transvestite.

"How do you do?" Asked Michele with a sad smile. "I really must be going." She tried to push through them, but Candy stopped her.

"Honey, women don't come down here unless they work here or they're in serious trouble. And your pantsuit tells me that you sure as hell don't work here."

Michele started to cry all over again, telling them about the horrible day she had had. They listened to her with sympathetic ears, patting her shoulders lovingly. She told them she was stranded without cash, that she had been mugged, and that she was utterly unemployed.

"Well," said Vanessa, placing an arm around her, "there's no reason I can't help you get home. I got a few extra dollars in tips tonight - I can pay for another subway ticket."

Michele's head snapped up. "Really?" She asked, then stared down at her hands. "I mean, you don't have to do that. I mean...if it's gonna be too much trouble..."

Vanessa laughed. "Where have I got to be tonight? Nowhere. And I always got to help a sister in need. And sister, I made quite a bit of money tonight, and I'm feeling generous."

Candy laughed, then added jokingly, "If you could make all that money, think of what pretty Miss Michele could make."

She and Vanessa laughed up a storm for quite some time, but Michele did not. She merely stared at the floor, thinking.

When they had stopped laughing, she asked, "Exactly how much money do you make?"


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Vanessa was right - Michele made more money at the Kat Skratch Klub than she and Candy made combined. It was a low existence and it made her feel dirty inside - she wore cheap and tasteless outfits, the kind she had sneered at that night she came stumbling in, looking for help, and she danced for classless men who touched her in places she would never allow anywhere else. She was ashamed of her new profession and didn't dare tell anyone at the apartment, but it helped her pay her rent and put food on the table - what more could she do?

One night, as she was getting ready for work, Max knocked on her open door. She stared into her vanity mirror at him as he leaned on her door frame, smiling gently. "Hey pretty lady," he said. The phrase, which she had heard so many nights before from scuzzy old men, made her wince. "Hello Max," she said, trying to hold in her annoyance.

He was taken aback by her cold aura, the dismissing way she spoke to him, but he pressed on. "So listen," he began, taking a few steps toward her, "I was thinking about going to Sadie's show tonight and I was wondering if you wanted to come. After work I mean." He stared down at the floor as she stared through him. "I mean...you haven't been out of the apartment in a long time except to go to work, and...I feel like you could just use a little fun in your life."

She stared at him for a moment longer, then went back to putting on her lipstick. "I'd like to," she said without emotion, "but I can't. I have a late shift at the diner tonight and I really can't afford to take off." She smoothed her lips together and threw her lipstick into her purse, standing up so fast her chair almost fell over. She turned to go, but Max's suspicious eyes stopped her. "What?" She asked.

"I just think it's a little odd, that's all," he said, closing the gap between them. "I mean...don't they have someone else who can work the late shift? Someone who isn't as...I don't know...female as you?" He reached for her hand, but she turned away.

"Look Max," she began, turning away from him and throwing on her coat, "things just aren't as easy for me as they are for you. My parents aren't supplying me with an endless cash flow like yours are. I gotta eat too you know." Her words were cold, calculated, but not completely unkind.

"Alright, fine," he said, undertones of hurt in his voice, "if you change your mind, you know where we'll be." He turned without a sound, and left.

Michele was finally dragging herself up the stairs at 4am. She yawned, staring up at the daunting flights that never seemed to get any shorter, especially on nights like this. It had been long and hard, with men slinking in and out like cats who had just killed the canary. She pressed a hand to her left eye, jerking her head away as she did so. Tonight, a man had gotten a little too grabby, and when she protested, giving him a slap, he hit her in the face, hard. She would most certainly have a bruise, one which wouldn't go away for a month or more. _Great,_ she thought, _like anyone's gonna want a dance from the girl whose face is all purple._

She pressed her key into the lock and opened the door to the apartment. There was a single light on, and Max sat next to it, his head tilted back, asleep. She smiled, remorseful for how she had treated him before. She stepped towards him and roused him gently. "Max," she said softly, "Max, it's Michele."

He slowly opened his eyes and wiped the sleep from them. She smiled at him and laughed. "Max, it's 4am. What are you doing on the couch honey?"

He straightened up, his eyes half-lidded. "I must have dozed off. Actually, I was waiting for you..." he blinked, finally taking in her swollen face. "Jesus Christ, what happened to you?" He stood up, and she blushed, setting her keys down and drifting towards her room.

"It's nothing," she said, realizing she hadn't made up her story quite yet. "Occupational hazard I'm afraid."

He took her arm and spun her around, lifting her chin to get a better look at her injury. "Occupational hazard? What, did you get in a fight with a bear?"

She laughed. "Yeah, you should see the bear."

He laughed at her. "What, did you kick his ass?" He took her hand and lead her towards the kitchen. "Come on. I'm going to take care of you like you took care of me."

When they reached the kitchen, he sat her down at the table, then went to the refrigerator. He took some ice from the ice box and wrapped it in a towel. "Here," he said, handing her the bundle, "this should take the swelling down." As she placed it to her eye, she winced, sucking in a puff of air through her teeth. She looked at him, tears in her eyes, but trying to stay strong. "Ouch," she said timidly.

"Ah, ouch," he said, smiling, "I've got something for that too. It's in my medicine cabinet. Just let me - "

Michele's hand on his made him stop short. "No thank you Max. You've done fine with the ice pack."

He stared down at her hand on his, and her fingers gripped his hand lightly. He cleared his throat nervously. "So um...you never really said what happened to you."

She sighed. "Well..." She searched her brain for an answer, any answer. "You see, there's this guy that comes in all the time," she paused, deciding on this half-truth, "and well, he was pretty drunk..."

"Are you kidding me?" Asked Max, disbelieving and angry. "Some guy hit you?"

She stared at him, realizing what she'd just done. "Max, it's alright. Don't get upset..."

"I'm going to kill him," he said, leaving the table suddenly and pacing around the kitchen. "What's his name? I'm going to find him, and I'm going to beat his ass."

"Max, please. He's not going to give me any more trouble...the police came and - "

"Michele, I'll tell you, I've never liked you working so late. And then you have to come home by yourself? JESUS, it's like these people don't have any common sense!" He slammed his hand down on the counter, pausing for a moment. "You know what? From now on, I'm escorting you to and from work. You don't deserve to be put in that kind of position."

She shook her head, her eyes wide. He couldn't find out where she really worked - she was too ashamed. "No Max, you don't have to do that. It's not a big deal!" She put the ice pack down and stood up, closing the gap between them. "If I have to, I'll ask for an earlier shift!" She leaned on the counter, staring into his big blue eyes. "Please. Don't make this any bigger than it has to be."

He stared at her in disbelief. "Look at your face Michele. Your beautiful face is covered in a big purple bruise because some junkie asshole hit you at work." He brushed a hand over her cheek gently. "Don't you see how dangerous this is?"

She broke eye contact and stared at the floor. "Please. You don't understand." She took his arm and stroked it with her fingertips. "You don't know...everything..." She looked into his eyes again, and he into hers. She stared down at the floor again, embarrassed, still stroking his arm.

There was a silence for a moment, and then, she saw them.

Track marks on the crook of Max's arm.

Michele placed a finger beside one, careful not to touch it. "What is this?" She said, swallowing, trying to keep her cool.

Max looked down for a moment, then pulled away from her, pulling his rolled up sleeves down. "It's nothing." He stared off into the distance, anywhere but into her eyes.

"It's nothing," she said quietly. "Max, I know what that is. I'm not an idiot."

He rounded on her. "No Michele, you have no idea what it is!" His voice was raised, his eyes blazing. "I saw things in Vietnam that no one should ever see, and you're gonna patronize me because of a little dope?"

She tried to keep calm, not really knowing what to do. "Max, I've seen what the war can do, but this isn't how to deal with - "

"Oh my God," he said, laughing in spite of her. "Yeah, you saw what it can do. You didn't see shit! You saw your boyfriend acting like he'd never even met you, yeah, fine. Well you know what? That's not gonna be me. That's what the dope is for."

She slapped him across the face, eyes welling with tears. There was a pause as he stared at her with disbelief. "You have no idea who I am or what I've been through! You act like the world doesn't know a god damn thing, like you're the only fucking person that went to Vietnam! Well you're not. I just didn't think that someone as smart as you would be stupid enough to start shooting up and throwing what's left of your life away!"

Max opened his mouth as if to speak, but the words never came. His eyes glazed over in a stare, and he fell to his knees, his eyes locked on her. He started to tremble ever so slightly, and glanced around as if there were something stalking him. "Kevin," he said, his breathing increasing. "KEVIN!" He fell to the floor, his eyes wide with fear, body paralyzed, his brow sweating, his hands shaking.

Michele understood immediately - this was another flashback, and a very vivid one at that. She dropped beside him, picking him up in her arms and cradling him. "Max, it's just me," she said, her voice calm but shaking. "You're not in Vietnam anymore. You're in New York." She ran a cool hand over his forehead and smoothed his hair back, a tear falling from her eye and onto his face. "You're with me. Michele."

As soon as the tremor had started, it had stopped. He stared up at her with unblinking eyes, eyes which turned ashamed and sad when he realized what had happened. He tried to sit up, but couldn't, sweating even more than before.

"I...I'm sorry Michele," he said, letting out a wheeze. "I don't know what - "

She hushed him. "I know. Its alright." She wiped another tear from her eye.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Michele stroked Max's back as he emptied the contents of his stomach into the toilet. He hadn't been well in a few days now, and it was hard to tell whether the cause was his vivid flashbacks or symptoms of withdrawal. After that night in the kitchen, he had agreed to get clean, and she had agreed to help him at all costs.

Unfortunately, offering a comforting hand while your friend vomited at 4am was one of those costs.

Max pushed back from the toilet, leaning his head on the cabinets. He was sweating and shaking, and was too weak to stand on his own. He looked up at Michele for a moment, managing a slight blush at her gaze. "I must look so handsome to you right now," he said, laughing weakly. "The fact that I haven't gotten out of this bathrobe in days makes it even better."

She took the cool rag in her hand and dabbed it across his forehead. "It's alright to be vulnerable Max. It's just me." She laid a cool and gentle hand on his cheek and smiled. "And if you're so concerned about the bathrobe, why don't you change?"

He smiled pathetically, his big blue eyes endless pools of sadness. "I probably should, shouldn't I? This is starting to become disgusting." He placed his hands underneath himself and tried to push up, but couldn't. Michele stood up and took his arms, lifting him up with all her strength. He blushed weakly again, and they shuffled to his bedroom.

She sat him down on the bed, then went to his drawers to look for something other than a bathrobe for him to wear. She opened the first drawer and pulled out a white cotton t-shirt, held it up to him and asked, "Is this alright?" He nodded, swallowed.

She stood in front of him and unfolded the shirt slowly. Max laughed. "This always seems to happen, doesn't it? I mean, I feel like I'm always incapacitated and you're always dressing me."

She laughed as well. "Yeah, that does seem to be a common theme around here, doesn't it?" She untied the bathrobe and slid it down his shoulders, revealing his bare torso. She swallowed hard at what she saw - his ribs protruded from his sides, and his skin looked ashen. There was a round scar just below his collar bone, a scar that could have only been left by a hot bullet. She pressed a finger to it, his eyes soft and sad as he stared up at her.

She shook her head to clear her mind, realizing just how long she had been gaping at him. "I'm sorry," she said, rolling up the shirt and pulling it over his head. "I shouldn't have just stood there with my mouth open like an idiot." She pulled the sheets back and laid him down, then placed the sheets lightly on top of him. He said nothing, only stared up at her with his same sad eyes.

As she was leaving, he called out to her. "Wait," he said suddenly, and she spun around. "Please stay." There was a moment of silence between them. "Please. Just until I fall asleep."

Michele peered outside the room to see if anyone was watching, but her concerns were unfounded. She glanced back at the bed, at the sickly Max, and hesitated. Finally, she slowly inched her way to the other side of the bed, pulled back the sheets, and laid down next to him. He winced as he rolled over to face her, then placed a trembling arm around her waist and shut his eyes. She could feel his rattling breath hot against the side of her neck, and she stroked his arm lightly. She began humming a tune lightly, then singing.

_There are places I remember_

_All my life, though some have changed_

_Some forever not for better,_

_Some have gone and some remain,_

_Though I know I'll never lose affection_

_For lovers and friends that went before,_

_I know I'll often stop and think about them,_

_In my life, I love you more_

For the first time, Michele realized that she was in love with Max. She turned her head to gaze at him, sleeping silently and deeply, cuddled up against her, and pressed her lips to his forehead. But Max was a junkie, and until he changed that, they couldn't be together. She sighed, then closed her eyes and slept.

When Michele awoke, it was well into the afternoon and Max was showering. _He must be feeling much better, _she thought to herself, _if he was able to get himself up and shower._ She rolled over and looked at the clock - it was already 2pm, almost time for her to get a shower and get ready for work. She slid her feet over the side of the bed and rubbed the sleep from her eyes and yawning.

At that moment, Max came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. He looked healthier, as if his cheeks had a little color in them, and he had shaved his scruffy facial hair. They smiled at each other, and he made his way to his dresser drawers.

"Max, I have to tell you, you look so much..." She stared in horror as he dropped his towel and stood in front of his drawers completely naked. She laughed nervously and stared out the window, hiding her eyes from him. "Better," she finally finished. "You look better today."

After what seemed like hours, he finally slid on a pair of underwear and jeans. "Yeah," he laughed, "it's amazing what a pretty girl can do for you." He glanced at her and gave her a sly smile, still shirtless. "Speaking of doing things for other people, I was wondering if maybe you'd like to go to dinner with me tonight."

She turned her eyes slightly towards him, smiling a toothy grin. "Really? I mean...you don't have to do that."

He closed the gap between them and knelt in front of her. "Michele, you have done more for me than anyone I can speak of. The least I can do is show you some hospitality."

Her smile faded as she realized the job she had to do tonight. "I'd like to Max, really I would, but I have to work."

"I thought you'd say that. That's why we'll be going right now so you can be on time." He pulled a blue sweater over his head and turned towards her. He looked better than she had ever seen him, skin and bones or otherwise.

"Max, I'm not ready. I mean I need to shower and fix myself up and - "

"Michele, you look beautiful. You always do. Please, just indulge me and say yes."

She hesitated for a moment, but couldn't suppress the grin that spread across her face. "Yes," she said.

The dinner was lovely but rather uneventful. Even so, both Max and Michele left the restaurant as if they had grown a foot taller. The only problem to speak of was Max's trembling, which had begun somewhere around dessert. Michele found this odd, especially since he had been feeling so well before, but she said nothing. She didn't want to ruin the moment.

When they had finished, they parted with a modest peck on the cheek and a quick embrace. Max made it clear that he wanted more, but unfortunately, Michele didn't have time - it was well past time to go to work. She broke into a run toward the nearest subway station, her high heels clicking on the cement. "When are you gonna be home?" Max called after her, a smile on his face.

She turned around slightly, jogging backwards. "I'm not sure. Late again."

"I'll wait up for you!"

They both giggled, and she blew him a kiss.

Michele strutted around the Kat Skratch, waiting for someone to flag her down for a lap dance. While this was usually a major and horrible chore, she couldn't help but smile - when she finally got home to Max, all of this would be worth it. She had resolved to tell him tonight, then quit and get a respectable job somewhere. She didn't want any secrets between them.

Finally, after her second go-around, a man waved at her, a seductive smile spread across his face, revealing one golden tooth. His long hair was pulled into a pony-tail, and his face was pitted and scarred. He was a large man, one of the more intimidating clientele this evening. She rolled her eyes a bit and tightened her red bikini, then took a deep breath and sauntered over to him.

She stood in front of him, hands on her hips. "What can I do for you, stranger?"

He pulled out a $20 bill and waved it in front of her. "Just a dance, sweetheart. What's your name?"

She swallowed to keep from vomiting, something she always had to do before giving a lap dance. "Michele." She swung her legs over his lap, then moved her pelvis back and forth across it.

"Michele. A pretty name for a pretty girl. My name's Tony. Say, what's a pretty girl like you doing here anyway?"

She sighed. She hated when the patrons tried to talk to her. "Run of bad luck I suppose. But all that's changing now."

"Is that so? Good for you." He smiled again, and thankfully, the song ended. He placed the money in her g-string, and she turned to leave, but he caught her by the wrist.

"Say Michele, since it's gonna be your last night, I'll make you a deal." Her shoulders sank. She knew what kind of a deal this was going to be, and it was going to be one she would have to refuse. The man called Tony pulled a $100 bill out of his pocket and waved it under her nose. "It's worth $100 if you just take me outside and show me a good time." She scoffed at him, and turned to leave again, but he would not let go.

"Come on. The money's more than worth it, I promise. I'm a gentle guy. You won't feel a thing."

She was only half listening now, because her eyes had been drawn to the door. As if in slow motion, in a large group of men in which he didn't belong, Max had walked in the front door.

Michele's eyes widened as she tried desperately to turn her back to him. He hadn't seen her yet, but one thing was for sure - she had to get away from this goon before he did.

"HEY!" Yelled Tony, pulling her wrist so her face was inches away from his. "Now I'm paying you good, hard earned money for this, and I won't be refused by a goddamned whore!"

Panic had set in. Michele grabbed Tony's wrist and tried desperately to pull away. "I'm not a whore! Please, let go!" There was a struggle as he tried to pull her on top of him.

"YOU SLUT! YOU DIDN'T SEEM TO HAVE A PROBLEM WITH IT A FEW MINUTES AGO! YOU WERE JUST ASKING FOR IT THEN, WEREN'T YOU!"

The entire bar seemed to go quiet as she struggled with him some more. Everyone was looking, and she was sure Max was too, though she dared not look his way. Finally, Tony let go, sending her flying across the room and onto the floor, into a table. Two empty high ball glasses fell to the floor, shattering and spraying glass all over her half-naked body. Tony stood up and came towards her menacingly, unzipping his pants. She held up an arm and slid backwards, looking around for someone, anyone to help her.

Help finally came in the form of Candy and one of the nicer bartenders restraining Tony with all their might. Candy's eyes shot over to the sprawled Michele on the floor. "Cookie, you better get the hell out of here," she said, wrestling him to the ground. Michele did what she was told, scrambling to stand up and running out into the ally as fast as she could. As she ran, she passed Max, who was standing by the bar, a wide-eyed and disbelieving look on his face.

Once in the deserted ally, Michele crouched down and began to sob. She ran her hands through her hair, worried not about Tony, but about what Max must think of her. She stared at her bloody thighs and hands, mutilated by the shattered glass.

Her sobs were interrupted by the door to the ally slowly creaking open. There was the sound of footsteps coming toward her, and she wrapped her arms around herself, sure it was Tony coming to finish what he had started. She jumped a little when a brown blazer was placed gently over her shivering body. "You have to be cold out here like this," said a familiar voice. She turned her head to see Max, his eyes filled with the deepest sadness. She threw her arms around him and rested her head against his chest, her body wracked with sobs. He wrapped his arms around her waist and rocked her gently, kissing her cheek lightly. "It's alright," he said over and over again, "there's nothing to worry about anymore."

After a time, she pulled away from him and wiped the tears from her eyes with a bloody hand. She stood up slowly, not meeting his eyes with her own. "You must think I'm a terrible person."

He lifted her chin lightly. "Why would I ever think that?"

"Because I lied to you," she said, her eyes glistening with tears. "I'm not a waitress. I'm just a stripper. I came down here almost every night and danced for these awful people. Danced for them in this," she gestured to her red underwear. "Like a whore. Like everything that man said. That's what I am."

Max shook his head and took her face in his hands. "No, Michele. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever met, and you are better than all of this. You deserve better than what you've had. And I think I'm in love with you."

There was a pause between them until they couldn't wait any longer. Slowly, their lips met in the most gentle kiss there has ever been on this earth.

Later, they lay in bed together, their bodies entwined, staring up at the ceiling above them. Max stroked Michele's cheek, then kissed her forehead lovingly. "I feel like a new man," he said, then laughed, "as campy as it sounds."

Michele smiled up at him. "It doesn't sound campy."

_Here comes the sun, doo da doo doo  
Here comes the sun, and I say  
It's alright_

Little darling  
It's been a long, cold, lonely winter  
Little darling  
It feels like years since it's been here

Here comes the sun  
Here comes the sun, and I say  
It's alright 


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Fall soon faded into winter in New York City, but Michele and Max's love was still strong. Michele was no longer sleeping in her lonely little room, but had moved her things into Max's room, and neither of them had ever been happier. Sadie had looked at them at breakfast one morning and laughed, patting Max on the back. "I don't know what this apartment complex does to people," she said, "but whatever it is, the rest of the world should get in on it, and quick." The couple responded by smiling knowingly and sweetly at each other, Michele's delicate hand laid over Max's.

Michele had gotten a real job at an Italian restaurant around the corner, and Max frequently visited her on her breaks, much at the dismay of the patrons and owner. One older woman had caught them embracing by the bathrooms, and had mumbled something about health code violations. "Get hip lady," Max said loudly, but not unkindly. "Soon it'll be the 70s, and you'll still be stuck in the 40s!"

She struck him as hard as she could with her purse. "Get a haircut, hippie!" She said angrily, then slipped into the ladies room.

Michele turned to him, trying to look stern but almost unable to hide her smile from him. "Max, you are going to get me in trouble! I need this job you know." She jabbed him playfully, her eyes fixed on his.

"Hey, these people should thank me. I'm just letting them know what they're missing," he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her in close. "How could they resist you anyway?"

She rolled her eyes. "Oh trust me, they can. They can do what ever they want. Now let me go, my break's over and these people need their pasta." She smiled at him as silence settled in between them. He pulled her close, and their lips met for a long time. Finally, Michele wrestled away from him. "I love you," she said softly. "Now go home!"

She spun around to leave and she felt him smack her buttocks. "Go get 'em tiger," he yelled, loud enough for the entire restaurant to her. "No slacking off this time. No meatball left unturned!"

Michele turned to face him just before she turned the corner. "You are an ass!" She said with a laugh. He laughed as well, then left.

When Michele returned home that night, Max was waiting for her on the couch again, this time reading a newspaper. She shuffled to him slowly, then bent down and kissed his cheek. "Reading the paper, you square old man?"

He was completely still for a moment, then pounced. He pulled her down to the couch and laid on top of her, delighting in her giggle. He looked at her with feigned sternness. "I resent being considered old for reading the paper, little girl," he said, his voice mocking what she could only guess was his own father. "Being interested in current events is anything but square!" She giggled again, and he broke character. "I'm glad to see you home," he said, then bent down and kissed her.

Their rather heated passion on the couch was interrupted when Max pulled away and exclaimed, "Oh! Before I forget and this turns into steamy sex," he flashed that brilliant seductive smile and Michele rolled her eyes, "a letter came in the mail for you today. I think it might be a Christmas card or something." He sat up and produced a small red envelope from his pocket and handed it to her.

She examined it. It was in fact addressed to her, that was for sure, but that wasn't what interested her. In the upper left hand corner, the O'Brien family had written their name and address.

Michele caught her breath suddenly. She hadn't been in contact with the O'Briens since James' funeral, and that encounter hadn't been pleasant in the least.

Max placed a hand on her knee. "What's wrong?"

She shook her head and swallowed. "It's from James' family." She ran a hand over the other side of the sealed envelope, then took a deep breath and opened it. It was in fact a Christmas card, with a fat smiling cardinal perched in a snowy tree printed on the front of it. She opened it, and the O'Brien family had signed the inside, wishing her a Merry Christmas.

But there was also something else. A folded note on lined paper.

Michele realized she was sweating, and her hands trembled slightly as she opened the note.

_Dear Michele,_

_Your mother gave me your New York address, and I just thought I'd drop you a line and say hello. I was wondering if perhaps you'd like to join us for dinner on Christmas Eve. Perhaps you can bring that boy along your mother keeps talking about. Give me a ring and let me know._

_Sincerely Yours,_

_Donna O'Brien_

Michele sighed and folded the note back and held it in her two hands as if it were a treasure that could be easily broken.

After a while, Max spoke. "Is everything ok?"

She turned to him. "They want me to come to their Christmas dinner. And they want me to bring you."

He placed an arm around her. "Well that's great! I wouldn't mind going, not at all."

She shook her head slightly. "We can't go Max. There's no way." She stood up and paced around the room, staring down at the floor.

"Why not? They seem nice enough."

She paused for a moment. "You don't understand. The last time I spoke to Donna O'Brien, she was screaming at me for abandoning her son, for leaving him alone in his time of need," she ran a hand through her hair. "She blames me for his death." She began pacing again. "And then she wants me to bring you. The man who replaced her son. I don't think so. I'm not putting you in that position." She stopped and steadied herself with one hand on the drywall.

Max stood up and went to her, laying a loving hand on her shoulder. "Maybe she's changed her mind. She wouldn't have invited you if she really thought you caused her child's death."

She shook her head. "You didn't see her eyes that day, Max. I've never seen anyone look at me that way." She shivered. "It was horrifying."

He looked down at her, and she up at him. "Well," he began, searching for an answer. "Why don't you sleep on it, and then you can make your decision tomorrow." He brushed her hair behind her ears and let his hands slide to either of her cheeks.

She smiled slightly for a split second, then nodded.

"Come on now," Max said, stroking her cheek. "Where were we?" He smiled seductively once again, then pulled her in tightly.

"Is that all you think about?" Asked Michele, half annoyed, half amused.

"What else am I supposed to think about? Current events? That newspaper was just a farce, my dear." He twisted his fingers around his non-existent moustache in a very Vaudevillian-antagonistic way.

She sighed. "There you go again, Maxwell's silver hammer. Your charm truly is dangerous. It kills me, really it does," she said sarcastically.

He picked her up in a cradle carry and headed toward the bedroom. "Oh Michele, I am going to make you eat those words. Hopefully three times in the next couple hours."

"Give me a break! I had to work all night you know!"

"I didn't say you had to be awake all three times."

"You're sick!"


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Michele woke up the next day with Max's arm draped around her frame. She blinked to clear the haze from her eyes and stared at the nightstand. Donna O'Brien's note was laying there, half unfolded and pathetic.

She took Max's arm and crawled out from under it, then swung her legs over the side of the bed. She sat there for a moment, looking at the note suspiciously. After a time, Max opened his eyes weakly and brushed her back lightly. "What are you doing up so early?" He asked groggily. "It's Saturday you know."

She spun around and kissed him on the forehead and stroked his arm. "Nothing. Go back to sleep." He smiled and complied.

She stood up and took the note, then got ready to take a walk.

When Michele returned to the apartment, all three of her housemates were sitting in the living room. They looked up at her as she unwrapped the scarf from her neck and unbuttoned her coat.

"Where have you been, Michele, ma belle?" Asked Max, gesturing with a coffee mug.

She shrugged. "I don't know. I took a walk. I was thinking." She produced the note from her pocket and nodded down at it. She walked over to him and sat on his lap, then kissed him.

"And what's the verdict?" Asked Sadie. At Michele's confused expression, she added, "Max told us everything."

"Oh," she said, giving Max a disapproving look, "did he now?"

"What can I say? I've got a big mouth." Michele rolled her eyes, then turned back to Sadie.

"I don't know. I mean...what do I say to her?" She asked no one in particular. "'I'm sorry I killed your son'?"

"Michele, you didn't kill her son," said Joe, supporting his head on one hand on the couch. "Ain't nobody done anything to him but the Viet Cong."

Michele scoffed. "Try telling her that."

"What Joe's trying to say," said Sadie, laying a hand on her arm, "is that it isn't your fault. Maybe she's finally realized that. Maybe she wants to tell YOU she's sorry."

She looked at Max, who was nodding in agreement. "That seems logical," he said.

Michele sighed, then thought for a moment. "Alright," she said, taking his hand, "but I can't do it without you."

"No problem, babydoll," he said, smiling slightly.

A week later, Michele and Max stood on a platform at Grand Central Station, waiting to take the 9am train to Boston. Michele clutched her satchel and stared up at the clock: 9:15.

"What the hell is taking so long?" She asked anxiously, peering down the tracks. She felt hot, and her cheeks were flushed, even in this frigid weather. It was obvious that she was nervous.

Max put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her in close. "Come on, there's nothing to worry about. It will be here soon en - "

She pushed him away, annoyed. "I'm sorry," she said when she looked into his hurt eyes. "I'm hot. And I'm nervous."

He smiled comfortingly. "There's no reason to be nervous. I'm here. Nothing can happen to you," he said, taking her gloved hand gently. "Let's try to have a little fun, shall we? All this negative energy is depressing as hell."

"I'm sorry," she snapped, "but if you were in my position, you'd be treating this a little differently."

Silence fell between them and they were still for a moment. That is, until Max started humming, then singing softly.

_Roll up, roll up for the mystery tour.  
Roll up, roll up for the mystery tour._

Max peered at her out of the corner of his eye. She was acting like she didn't even hear him. He had no choice but to sing louder.

_Roll up AND THAT'S AN INVITATION, roll up for the mystery tour.  
Roll up TO MAKE A RESERVATION, roll up for the mystery tour. _

At this point, Michele had noticed, and so had everyone else on the platform. "Max, everyone is staring..." She looked around and shrugged, trying to look as if she didn't know him. He smiled and did a showy turn, almost falling on his ass. He jumped up on a bench and kept on singing, this time making sure the entire vicinity could hear him.

_The magical mystery tour is waiting to take you away,  
Waiting to take you away!_

She couldn't help but laugh as he made a fool of himself, as she realized just one more reason why she was in love with him.

_Roll up, roll up for the mystery tour._

_Roll up, roll up for the mystery tour._

_Roll up AND THAT'S AN INVITATION, roll up for the mystery tour. _

_Roll up TO MAKE A RESERVATION, roll up for the mystery tour. _

He extended a hand and she took it, and he helped her up on the bench. He spun her around, then started to ballroom dance with her very clumsily. For a moment, the world was filled with color. The bench was hot pink, the tracks were electric blue, and to Michele, it was magical. They stood there, observing the sudden psychedelic overtones the platform had taken on. Michele laughed, and she joined him in song.

_The magical mystery tour is coming to take you away, _

_Coming to take you away._

_The magical mystery tour is dying to take you away,_

_Dying to take you away, take you away!_

A few hours later, they were stepping off the train in Boston, into the arms of her French parents. Her mother yelped when she saw her, making a B-line towards her and embracing her clumsily. "Meechele!" She yelled, her face fixed in a toothy grin. "Mon enfant chéri! Regardez-vous! Vous êtes si maigre!" She kissed her cheeks, then handed her over to her father, who kissed her again.

Michele turned to her mother and Max, who looked as confused as she had ever seen him. She laughed, then said, "Mère, il est beau pour vous voir, vraiment il est, mais...um...no French this trip." She gestured to Max. "We have a guest."

Her mother paused and turned to Max, then smiled warmly and embraced him, kissing him on both cheeks. "Mex..." she said in her broken English. "Meechele has told me so mach about you."

Max smiled and turned on the charm. "Likewise," he said, taking in this small red-headed French lady. "Michele speaks very highly of the both of you." He turned to Michele's father and extended a hand. "Mr. Daurier, I'm Max Carrington. I've been dating your daughter, I hope that's alright with you."

Michele's father took Max's hand with a smile, but said nothing. There was an awkward pause as they shook for an incredibly long amount of time, until Michele finally interrupted, leaning into Max and whispering, "He doesn't speak English."

She turned to her smiling father and told him what Max had said, and he told her his response in French. "He says he's pleased to meet you, and that any friend of his daughter's is a friend of his," her father added something at the last moment, "as long as you're not a promiscuous dope fiend."

Max looked at Michele, who shrugged and laughed. He looked back at Mr. Daurier, who was no longer smiling. Max shook his head fiercely, and said, "No!"

Her father smiled again, and they turned to leave the platform.

Max and Michele stood on the front porch of the large colonial house, its bleach white pillars extending towards a second-level patio, its front stairs inviting them in tones of red brick. The lawn was vast, covered in white pillowy snow that looked as if it were there for effect, and white Christmas lights hung on its trim. There was a large bay window in front which revealed a Christmas tree the size of the Chrysler Building. From the moment the couple stepped into the yard, it was clear the O'Briens didn't live modestly.

Michele extended a finger towards the doorbell, then immediately turned to Max and smoothed out his hair hurriedly, trying to make him more presentable than he already was. He smiled at her, then laughed.

"What? What's so funny?" She asked, annoyed.

"Nothing. It's just...I don't think you need to get so crazed. Just relax, everything will be fine."

Michele's eyes blazed, and she spoke in a hushed and angry whisper. "You don't know the half of what these people are like, Max! I mean, even when James and I were happy - "

The front door opened and Michele stopped speaking immediately, her face changing from enraged to a polite and refined smile. "Donna, how nice to see you," she said, no indication of the previous moments staining her face.

Donna O'Brien, a lovely woman of about 45, smiled thinly and gave Michele a quick hug that looked about as awkward as it probably felt. Donna brushed her short red hair out of her face and looked to Max, who was standing timidly in the entry way, a shy smile on his face. She extended a hand to him, and they shook slowly. "You must be Max," she said, her lips pursed in a thin half-smile. "It's a pleasure to have you both this evening. Please, come in."

She stepped aside and shut the door behind them, locking it as she did. If the outside of the house was nice, the inside was absolutely incredible. Peering up at the crystal chandelier, Max almost fell over, laughing as he did so.

"That thing looks like all of Tiffany's piled into a lighting fixture," he joked. Donna looked at him, and said nothing. Max stared down at the floor, trying to salvage what was left of his dignity from her cold stare.

The woman turned to face Michele. "Can I take your coats?"

Michele sprang to life as if she should have thought of this, and was stupid for having not. "Of course! Thank you very much." She slid off her jacket and nodded at Max to do the same. Donna hung them up on velvet hangers and placed them into the largest hall closet either of them had ever seen.

"Please," she said, indicating through the entrance under the stairs, "make yourselves at home." Her facial expression told them that she did not mind if they felt at home at all. "Dinner's not quite ready yet. Jim's in the family room, if you'd like to speak with him." She gave them one last up-down look, then turned to leave.

When they were sure she was out of the room, Max turned to Michele. "She seems...um...nice."

Michele shook her head. "I'd blame it on James' death, but the truth of the matter is, she was always like this," she started into the family room. "Its just gotten worse since he died."

Max caught her wrist. "Just to reaffirm, I'm right here." He smiled and kissed her. "And also, if there weren't a turkey involved, I would be so far out of here the windows would shake." They continued into the family room, where James' father, Jim, was sitting and reading a paper by the fireside. His jet black hair was graying at the temples, and was slicked back so tight it looked as if it was part of his skull. His bright green eyes, which were hidden under spectacles, were turned up at them, inspecting them closely. He folded his paper and laid it down, then came at them with his hand already fully extended. He shook Max's hand ferociously, but his handsome, yet wrinkled face, was full of apathy. "Jim O'Brien," he said, smiling the same half-hearted smile as Donna. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

Max turned on his charm once again, smiling warmly. "Max Carrington. The pleasure is all mine."

Jim turned to Michele and smiled a bit more genuinely. He had always liked Michele, but tried not to show it to Donna. He embraced her quickly then pulled away. "It's always nice to see you, Miss Michele. You look fantastic, as always. Oh, I almost forgot," he gestured toward a boy of about four who was playing with a toy fire truck. "This is Andrew."

The boy's head shot up at the mention of his name, and he waved at Michele awkwardly. "Hi Mitchelle," he said timidly. She smiled at him and waved back. She was surprised he remembered her - when they had met last he was only two.

Jim turned back to face them. "Maxwell, might I offer you a scotch?"

Max, who never turned down free booze, said, "Of course! Thank you for offering, Mr. O'Brien." Jim nodded and turned to go into the next room, the room that housed his private bar.

Anthony ran towards Michele, who picked him up and sat him on her hip. "You have gotten so big!"

He smiled and hugged her. "I missed you, Mitchelle," he said. "Why haven't you come around lately? Is it because James is gone?" He looked over at Max as disapprovingly as his four year old face could muster. Max, who had gone to the mantle to look at the pictures it held, did not even notice.

Michele smiled sadly. "That's a complicated answer for another day," she said, setting him down. He ran back to his fire truck, undisturbed, it seemed, at the way she dodged the question. Michele went to Max and laid a hand on his shoulder. He turned to face her for only a split second, then back to the photo he was so closely examining. It was James' military photo.

In truth, it was perhaps the best photo ever taken of him. His eyes were steely gray, transfixed in a far off stare. His bone structure was the stuff of the Gods, and looked as if it had been carved from marble. His broad shoulders reached the far edges of the photo. He was the perfect picture of manhood, a real American hero.

Max stared at the photo for a long time, and Michele rested her chin on his shoulder. "Is this him?" He asked.

Michele nodded. "That's him. That's James O'Brien."

Max sighed. "Until now, he was just some guy. Someone I didn't know. Almost like a character in a book. But now," he turned back to her and gazed into her eyes, "now I see him. Both eyes open."

She smiled, and Donna called them into dinner.

Dinner was relatively quiet. The family plus two cut into their turkey and shoveled their potatoes in, saying not much more than, 'pass the salt.' It was tense. You could hear the wind rattling through the deadened trees outside, and Michele swore she could hear the snow fall.

After a time, Jim cleared his throat. "So I've heard what Michele's been doing with her life," he said, wiping a dribble of gravy on his chin, "what do you do for a living Max?"

Max swallowed nervously and took a drink of his scotch. He was on his fourth glass, and was starting to get tipsy. Michele said nothing - she knew he was as nervous as she was. "I'm a taxi driver," he said, taking another bite of stuffing. "It's not much, but I find that it keeps the demons at bay."

Michele looked over at him out of the corner of her eye. _Please don't bring up the war, _she thought.

Jim's brow furrowed. "The demons, eh? What kind of demons?"

Donna, who had been drinking as well, interjected. "Yes, please, enlighten us. What the hell are you talking about?"

Jim turned to her. "Donna, let the boy speak."

Max set his fork down for a moment, glanced at Donna, then back to Jim. "I went to Vietnam and was honorably discharged after being wounded. But I find that things are looking up nowadays." He smiled and looked over at Michele.

Michele sighed and looked down at the floor. _Here we go._

There was a slight pause. Anthony, who was pushing his peas around the plate, said, "Viet-nam. I've heard of that. Isn't that where James - "

Michele hushed him. "That's not polite dinner conversation, Anthony."

"No, no, no," Donna said, putting her fork down and folding her hands under her chin. "Don't tell my child what is good conversation and what isn't." She glared at Michele for a moment, then turned to Max. "So what you're saying is that you came home from Vietnam all beat to shit, you get a job as a cab driver making minimum wage, you're injured, your mind is totally fucked, and Michele steps in and makes everything better?"

"Donna!" Yelled Jim, his fist now on the table. "You need to slow down, right now!"

"NO!" Screamed Donna, standing up and pouring herself another glass of wine and spilling half of it on the table. "Unless my hearing is going, I believe what I just heard this vagabond say was that Michele has helped him in his goddamned hour of need," Anthony was crying now, "and that everything is all better! Well, that's great, you know. Just fucking wonderful." There was another pause, and she lunged over the table at Michele, tears of hot rage pouring down her cheeks. "WHAT ABOUT MY SON? WHY COULDN'T YOU DO THAT FOR JAMES?"

Jim jumped up and restrained her, wrestling her into the kitchen. As the three remaining dinner guests sat in silence, the O'Brien's screamed at each other and filled the air with the sound of breaking glass.

A tear ran down Michele's cheek. Max looked over at her sadly and laid a hand on her arm. "It's...it's alright Michele. Everything is going to be fi - "

"No it isn't," she said softly. "Nothing was ever fine. And it sure won't be now."

Silence finally filled the kitchen. Jim poked his head back into the dining room and at the slumped over and crying Michele. "I'm sorry..." he said, seemingly at a loss for words. He came back into the dining room and rested his hands on the back of his chair. "I...I have a confession to make." He sighed and swallowed hard. "I wrote that letter. I thought...I thought maybe this would be good for her. Maybe it would help her move on." He looked up at Michele, and she could see his eyes glistening with tears. "But it didn't. She wasn't ready for any of this." He stared back down at the floor. "I think maybe you should go. I'm sorry...you didn't deserve this."

Michele stared at the wall in silence, looking completely numb save the tear that was dripping from her chin. She nodded, and Jim picked up the sobbing Anthony and left the room and wandered back into the kitchen.

Michele and Max sat for a moment in silence, the Christmas dinner sitting pathetically on the table. She slowly stood up and started shuffling out, Max behind her. She opened the coat closet and took out their coats, and handed his to him. They unlocked the front door and stepped into the yard in total silence.

Michele pushed in front of him and tried to hide her tears from him. "Michele, come on...please, don't do this. It will only make things worse."

She turned to him, barely holding in her emotion. "No. Don't try and tell me what I am feeling right now, because you have no idea." She turned around again, running a hand through her hair and hurrying off.

"What, are you just going to leave me here?" Asked Max, now visibly annoyed. "Look, we came here together and I'm not letting you out of my sight in the state you are in."

"Thank you, that's so valiant of you."

"Michele, I'm trying to help you!"

"You were the one that told me to come here! After everything I told you, after everything I said, you thought it was still a good idea! Well look where its gotten us! If you want to see what real pain is, all you have to do is look at the O'Brien family, and we stepped right into it! So thanks! Thanks a million!"

He grabbed her arm and tried to pull her in to him, but she wasn't having any of it.

"NO!" She screamed, furiously squirming in his grip."NO NO NO NO!"

"Michele, Michele," he said, getting lost in the fight. "MICHELE!" She finally stopped and stared up at him, her body wracked with sobs. She embraced him and tucked her head under his chin, wetting the front of his coat with tears. He smoothed her hair down and rocked her gently, doing all he could to comfort her, but tonight, he knew that nothing could comfort her, not even him.

The snow fell deeply and evenly around their feet, and it had never seemed colder.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

The train ride home was almost as silent as their dinner had been. Michele rested her head on Max's shoulder and held his hand tightly, but her mind was miles away. She couldn't stop thinking about Donna, about her wild ferocity, about the way she still thought Michele was responsible for James' death.

When they reached their apartment at 6 pm, all she wanted to do was sleep. She shuffled into the bedroom, her eyes swollen from crying the night before, a splitting headache forming in her temple. Max followed her in the bedroom and tucked her in, kissing her and brushing a cool hand over her forehead. "Are you sure you just wanna sleep tonight?" He asked. "It's only 6 o'clock...you won't be able to fall asleep later."

She nodded. "I don't want to think about anything right now," she said, closing her eyes tightly. "I want to forget." She felt numb.

"Ok," she heard Max say softly. There was the creak of the bedroom door, and he was gone.

Michele slept, or laid in bed at least, for almost 24 hours. At meal times, Max had come in and sat down on the bed, stroking her arm for her to wake up. "Michele," he said sweetly, "you've got to eat something."

She opened her eyes briefly to look at him. "I'm not hungry." He sighed, then left.

Another 24 hours went by. Michele found that what little hunger she had felt was completely gone. There was nothing left. She was all used up. She sat up in bed and peered around the room. Max had only been there to check on her and to grab clean clothes. He didn't want to disturb her, so he had slept in her old bedroom.

She thought about getting up, but the thought of sleeping some more enticed her to stay where she was. After a while, the door creaked open again, and Max stood there, staring at her. He smiled and turned on the light, which made her wince. "Oh, you're up," he said cheerfully. "Are you ready to eat yet?"

She shook her head. "I think I'm going to go back to sleep."

Max closed the gap between them and sat on the bed. "How long are you planning on doing this Michele?" He laid a hand on her cheek. "You're going to make yourself sick."

She looked into his eyes, her face expressionless and eyes cold. "I don't care."

His hand dropped to the bed. "You have to stop this. All you've done for two days is sleep. It's time to come out of your cave. Time to stop hiding." He laid a hand on hers, but she pulled away.

"I'm not hiding," she said, her voice still apathetic. "I'm just...not interested in life right now." She laid back down and turned away from him.

"Or you're just not interested in me, is that it?" Asked Max, his composure blown.

"Don't be ridiculous, of course that's not it."

Max paused to swallow, then slammed his fist down on the bedside table. "I wish you'd stop blaming me for your bullshit, Michele!"

She turned over to face him, her eyes narrowed. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about! I didn't make you go to that fucking dinner. You knew what was going to happen, but I think you went because..."

Michele sat up again. "What? Say it Max, why did I go?"

"Because you're still in love with James! He may be dead, but you still love him!"

There was a pause, then Michele pointed towards the door. "Get the fuck out," she said softly, her eyes brimming with tears, "and turn out the god damn light while you're at it."

Max nodded, his eyes boring into hers, then left in a rage.

Michele started to cry, and laid back down once again. She hummed to herself, a lullaby her mother used to sing to her when she was sick.

_Once there was a way to get back homeward_

_Once there was a way to get back home_

_Sleep pretty darling do not cry, and I will sing a lullaby_

_Golden slumbers fill your eyes_

_Smiles awake you when you rise_

_Sleep pretty darling do not cry_

_And I will sing a lullaby_

After a while, she slept.

Michele was awakened by the muffled sound of music and the drunken yell of party guests. She looked over at the clock: 3:30 am. She rolled over and placed her hands over her ears in a huff. _Like they could pick a better time to have a party,_ she thought to herself.

For a half-hour, Michele laid there, trying to get used to the music in the next room. She thought about her encounter with Max, and how awful they had been to each other. In the morning, she resolved to pull herself out of bed and eat, then tell him how much she loved him. She smiled at that a little. _At least I've found someone I know will always -_

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the bedroom door opening. There was the sound of a woman's giggle and a man hushing her. "Are you sure this is alright?" She asked, trying to suppress a laugh.

"It's fine," said the man. Michele's heart dropped into her stomach. _It couldn't possibly be..._

There was the sound of a sloppy kiss and a body falling into the dresser and moving it slightly across the wooden floor. She slowly sat up and turned her head in the direction of the noise, but could only make out two distorted shapes pressed together in the darkness. She reached over to the nightstand, swallowed, and turned on the lamp.

Max stood at the dresser, pinning a pretty brunette against it. His hand was making its way into her shirt, and his lips were pressed against hers. When the light flickered on, they looked up at Michele immediately and froze. The brunette pulled away from him and adjusted her top, blushing and breaking eye contact with Michele. "I...I'm really sorry," she said, and hurried out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Michele stared down at the blankets, then slowly pulled them away and swung her feet around to the ground. She tried to get up and fell slightly, and steadied herself on the nightstand. Still looking at the floor, she said, "Why would you do that?" There was a tightening feeling in her chest, and her heart beat as if it would burst out of her body. Even so, she was still and calm.

"Michele, I..." He ran to her and tried to embrace her, but she held out a hand before he got within range. She could smell the alcohol on his breath, see that his eyes were bloodshot. He'd had a few that night, and maybe taken some pills or something.

She turned to him, a smile spread across her face to keep from crying. "Did you forget I was in here, or what?" He opened his mouth to speak but she cut him off. "Don't answer that, I don't want to know." She laughed, but tears were forming in her eyes. "To think, I was actually going to come out there and tell you that I loved you," she wiped her eye, then stared at him angrily, "but now I realize it was all just a big joke."

He shook his head quickly, reaching out for her again. "No, no, Michele, it's not like that...it's...it's just that I..." he ran a hand through his blonde mop top, searching desperately for answers. "I love you, and I am totally wasted right now..."

"Is that supposed to inspire sympathy or something?"

"No, no it's not! Please Michele, I am so in love with you. I'm an idiot, I don't know what I was thinking." Silence fell between them.

"I don't either." She pushed her way around him and went to the dresser, taking out all her clothes and folding them into neat piles.

"Michele, wait. Please don't do this to us..." he grabbed her arm, but she shrugged it off and rounded on him.

"You did this to us! Don't try and blame this on me!"

He reached for her again, and she happened to glance down at his arm. Beside the track marks that had long since healed were new needle marks, blood still freshly pooled around them. She grabbed his wrist and studied them. She pushed on one, and he cried out in pain, pulling his arm back like he had just touched a hot iron. She went back to folding her clothes, her cheeks wet with tears.

Max sighed and leaned on the dresser, his blue eyes cast down in shame. "Michele...it was just one time. I'm sorry..."

"Yeah, I'm sorry, you're sorry, we're all really fucking sorry," she said, pushing past him to gather her stuff from the bathroom. "You know Max, before I saw those holes in your arm, I was just going to move back across the hall," she opened the medicine cabinet so quickly it looked as if it would pull from the hinges, "but now that I realize you're not only a cheater, but a junkie cheater...well, that just changes everything." She pushed past him and went to the door, then laid a hand on the doorknob. She paused for a moment, then turned around.

"I love you more than I've loved anyone in my entire life. More than anyone in your life has loved you, or will love you," she was crying again, "and at the first sign of trouble, you bolted! Do you have any idea what I've done for you? I helped you get clean, I held your head when you had flashbacks, I undressed you and put you to bed, I...I made you breakfast. I made love to you like I was going to die tomorrow," there was a pause, and she thought she saw him tear up, but couldn't be sure. "But most of all, I let you in. After all the shit I went through with James, I let you in. And that...that is what I hate myself most for."

"Michele," he began weakly, and closed the gap between them. "I'm sorry...God, I am so sorry," he leaned in to kiss her, but she turned her head.

She turned the doorknob and stumbled out into the party, which had all at once grown incredibly quiet. She looked down and realized that all she was wearing was Max's shirt over her underwear, but she didn't care. She opened up the closet and took out her carpet bag, then hastily stuffed all of her belongings inside. She threw on her coat and walked past the gaping party guests to the front door. On her way, she passed the woman that had stumbled into her room not ten minutes before. Michele paused. "He's all yours now," she said, then continued to the door.

She took one last hard look at Max, who was standing in the doorway of his bedroom, then opened the door and left the apartment. Over her shoulder, she thought she heard Sadie yell at Max, "What did you do?", but she couldn't be sure. Any way, it wouldn't matter now. Not in Boston.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

_6 Months Later_

Michele set the burger down at the table of the burned man, her most loyal customer. His name was Henry, he was 30 years old, and he was a burn victim who had lost a portion of his face and three fingers to an explosion in Vietnam. He smiled at her warmly, and asked, "Might I trouble you for some ketchup and mustard as well?"

She nodded and smiled back. "It's no trouble at all." She made her way into the kitchen, zigzagging to the cabinet where they kept the condiments. She opened the steel door and took out two bottles and set them on the adjacent counter, then began the trek back to the main dining room, but someone stopped her.

It was Daniel, the middle aged bald man who ran the kitchen. He held a spatula in one hand and and oven mitt on the other, and slammed a calloused hand on her shoulder much harder than was needed. He bent down so that the tip of his pock-marked nose was almost touching hers. "Why do you talk to that freak?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Of what freak are we speaking?"

"You know," he said, and made an ugly face. "The burn victim. The Phantom of the Opera. Hamburger Face. I've spoken to some of the other guests, and he makes them lose their appetite. He makes me a little queasy to tell you the truth."

Michele jerked away from him indignantly. "You should be ashamed of yourself! That man went to Vietnam!"

His face went from angry to enraged. "Then he deserves everything he gets! Get rid of him!"

"I most certainly will not!" She pushed past him and toward the dining room. "It's a cold day in Hell when I disrespect a veteran!"

She made her way back to his table in a huff, and set the ketchup and mustard down angrily. He was staring at his burger sadly, miles away from the little diner. "Is everything alright?" She asked timidly.

He looked up at her and laid a hand on her arm. "Thank you," he said, "thank you for that. And for serving me when no one else wants to." He peered at the order window, and Michele realized he had heard everything she and Daniel had just argued about. He swallowed, and she saw a tear form in his eye. "Can I have the check now, please?"

"No," she said, keeping her own tears back, "anything you want is free of charge."

Later, when he had finished his burger and a large slice of apple pie, Michele watched him pick himself up and slink out of the front door. A small boy pointed at him and his mother slapped his hand away, but kept him close to her and avoided eye contact with Henry.

Michelle didn't want to, but she thought of Max.

"Meechelle, a letter came for you!"

Michelle looked up from her Rolling Stone to see her mother lumbering across the lawn. She hobbled up the stairs with a long white envelope in her hand, her arm extended. Michele took it from her and kissed her on the cheek. "Thank you, Mama," she said in French. Her mother smiled, then went inside.

She flipped the letter over and looked first at the return address. It was from the U.S. Army, just the people she wanted to hear from. She tore the envelope into shreds and revealed the harsh official stationary underneath.

MICHELE DAURIER,

WE HAVE REVIEWED YOUR SUBMISSION PHOTOS AND ARE PLEASED TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR APPLICATION FOR A POSITION IN OUR PHOTO DOCUMENTATION PROGRAM HAS BEEN ACCEPTED. ENCLOSED ARE THE PROPER FORMS REQUIRED FOR RELEASE, AND A DETAILED DESCRIPTION OF YOUR SCHEDULE IN VIETNAM. IF YOU HAVE ANY QUESTIONS, COMMENTS, OR HAVE DECIDED THAT THIS OPPORTUNITY ISN'T RIGHT FOR YOU, PLEASE CONTACT US IMMEDIATELY.

Michele sighed and smiled slightly, holding the letter to her chest. A warm summer breeze ruffled her hair, and she closed her eyes, letting the feeling wash over her. _For James,_ she thought. _For Henry. And for Max._ Her eyes snapped open at the last name. She shook her head to clear the thought of him from her mind. Now was not the time to think of the man she still loved, not when she was about to submit herself to a battle zone. Now was the time to be a big girl.

A real American.

She opened the screen door to the house. "Mama, come quick!"


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

_11 Months in South Vietnam_

Michele straightened up her fatigues and splashed a bit of cool water in her face. It was noon in South Vietnam, and the jungle shook with the boom and crash of explosions, both far and near. She took a toothbrush from her pocket and tapped one of the infantrymen, Private Carver, on the shoulder. "You still got some of that whiskey?" She asked.

He nodded, then looked around. Slowly, he slid a hand into his deep pocket and produced a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel's. "Just don't use all of it, alright?"

She took it and emptied a tad on her toothbrush. "Thanks," she said quickly, then shoved the toothbrush in her mouth quickly. She grimaced at the sharp taste of alcohol that harassed her taste buds, a taste that never seemed to get better, even after all these months.

_All these months,_ she thought with a slight shudder. _No, nothing had really seemed to get any easier, had it?_

She had seen men dying, and photographed it. She had seen men killing each other, and she had snapped a thousand frames. She had taken a photo of a dead man, which her mother told her in a letter had made the cover of LIFE Magazine. She moved with the infantry, she entered the fray with the infantry. She had used her camera to block bullets with. She had seen injuries that had made her vomit, but she hadn't shed a single tear.

There wasn't room to cry. Not here.

"Hey Daurier!" A voice cried from behind her. A man she knew was running across the way with a crumpled up envelope in his hand. He was finely built, quite handsome, and had shown considerable interest in Michele, but her heart still belonged to Max. He stopped inches in front of her, panting slightly. "You got a letter from a..." he examined the envelope. "A Max Carrington in New York City. Your mother forwarded it here."

Her heart stopped for a moment as she reached a tentative hand towards the envelope. "Thank you, Sean," she said after a while.

He smiled. "No problem, beautiful."

She looked up at him and smiled back as he jogged away, his eyes still fixed on her.

She took a deep breath and slowly slid a finger across the top of the envelope, exposing its contents. She unfolded the letter inside and dropped the envelope to the ground.

_My Dearest Michele,_

_ I've been writing you for almost a year now...imagine my surprise when your mother finally wrote back in terrible English to tell me that you'd gone to Vietnam._

_ I know you don't want to see me or even hear from me again, but I want you to know that I still love you. Please be careful in that shit hole, Michele. If something happened to you I don't know what I would do with myself, even now. Please come back to me._

_I Love You._

_Max_

_P.S. I know it doesn't make any difference now, but I want you to know that I went to rehab. I've been clean for 6 months now. I did it for you._

She folded the letter again, and before she could stop herself, placed a gentle kiss on it.

Another explosion, this time only a quarter of a mile away. "LET'S GO!" Someone yelled. "EVERYONE IN THE JEEP, WE'VE GOTTA GET GOING!"

Michele glanced around quickly at the infantrymen running and hopping into the back of the Jeeps. Sean passed her and grabbed her arm, running along with her. "This is gonna be a good one," he said, trying to keep the look of fear in his eyes at bay. "Wouldn't want you to miss it."

She practically leapt into the back of the Jeep, her camera slamming against her body, wet with perspiration. She sat down next to men with semi-automatic rifles, then folded the letter from Max and tucked it away in her army fatigues.

_No room for tears, _she thought, _and no room for emotions._

Sean hadn't lied. It was in fact 'a good one.' The fighting took place beside a large trough-like creek, and the men trudged through it, the muddy water staining their pants and pouring uncomfortably inside their combat boots. They crouched, moving silently and close to the ground as bullets flew through the air above their heads. Michele followed close behind, almost rib deep in the water, carefully keeping her camera out of the toxic sludge and snapping photos.

For a moment, the bullets stopped, and everything was quiet. Sean turned to her, his eyes wild with fear, his gun clutched close to his chest. He pressed a finger to his lips, then motioned for her to keep walking.

The group inched forward, all of them peering around the edges of the creek. A man up front, one Michele was surprised to see had even made it this far, was almost paralyzed with fear. Tears wet his cheeks, and his breath came in and out with raspy heaves. "Shut up!" Another man said in a hushed whisper, "You're going to give up our position!"

The nervous man continued a bit father, sliding his feet along the muddy bank. After a few feet, he stopped suddenly, and Michele, even 50 feet away from him, heard that noise, that awful rotten clicking sound she had grown to hate.

The nervous man had stepped on trip wire.

He looked around at his comrades, a tear sliding down his cheek, his dirty face puckered in a sob. "Get back!" He yelled, his voice broken with tears. "Get back, I'm about to let up!"

The group stumbled backwards, Michele falling into the water as she did so. She raised her camera, but let it fall. She couldn't take a picture of this. She didn't have the heart.

The man blessed himself, then took a deep breath. He had barely raised his foot a half inch before the mine exploded in a spray of flame, water and gore cascading down like the most awful fireworks anyone had ever seen.

If that was what the enemy was waiting for, they made it known. Bullets flew back into the air, one hitting Sean in the head.

"SEAN!" Yelled Michele, running towards him and crouching beside him. He was dead, his blood leaking into the water with every pulse of his still beating heart.

"COME ON!" Someone yelled at her, "THERE'S NO TIME!"

Michele paused for a split second, his hand clasped in hers, then got up quickly and ran faster than she had ever ran in her life. As she ran, she turned and snapped a photo of Sean's lifeless body, a tribute to the man she had once known.

As if in slow motion, men were falling in their tracks, lifeless and limp around her. Explosions sent the bodies of more flying through the air, debris raining down upon her in macabre chunks. She covered her head and kept running, but she heard nothing but the quiet voice of Max as he sang to her when she was safe and warm in his bed.

_Here comes the sun_

She let out a primal scream. _There was no sun! Not here!_

She felt a sharp pain run through her chest like a white hot streak of lightning. She stopped short and put a hand down in the river, watching the blood pour from her wound like orange juice dripping from a jug. She touched a finger to the wound just under her right collar bone, then pulled it away, witnessing the sticky blood that stained it.

She felt Max's hand as it brushed her hair behind her ear, his soft lips as he kissed her own, the warmth of his body and they fit together perfectly.

_Little darling, it feels so long since its been here_

She reached a bloody hand to the last man in the pack. "Help me," she yelled as loudly as she could, but her words were only a muffled cry that echoed in her ear drums sadly. She tried to keep her eyelids open, but they were too heavy. She was going down, down, down, and all she could hear was that damn song.

_Sun, sun, sun, here it comes_

"I love you, Max," escaped her bloody lips, and her head fell into the water. And for a while, everything went black.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Michele awoke with a sputter to a flash of bright white light. She had a pounding headache, and her chest felt as if it was going to explode. She blinked furiously, trying to clear the haze from her eyes, but was unsuccessful. She could hear the incessant beeps of an EKG machine, timed to the rhythm of her own heart.

"Private Daurier," said a soft female voice, "it's nice to have you awake. How are you feeling?" The face of the woman swam into view. She was pretty, with a tight blonde bun at the back of her neck.

Michele coughed, ignoring the ridiculous question the nurse had asked. "Where am I?" She asked. There were fish hooks tearing at her throat as she spoke, and the feeling of fire in her gut.

"You're in Laos," she said, brushing a cool damp cloth over her forehead. "You were air-lifted here. A Private Carver carried you back to base. You should be thankful, you could have died."

Michele swallowed, preparing to speak again. "What happened to me?"

"You were shot," said the nurse, pouring a glass of water and placing a straw in it. She placed it between Michele's lips, and told her to drink. "The bullet entered to the right of your shoulder blade and exited just below your collarbone. You're very lucky it didn't pierce your heart."

Michele looked up at her with raised eyebrows, realizing all too late that the act of doing so was tremendously painful.

"You also bashed your head on a rock when you fell. We stitched you up alright, but I'm sure it still smarts." She dabbed the cloth to Michele's forehead again, avoiding the wound.

"I suppose I'm done now," said Michele, closing her eyes.

The nurse sighed and drew her hand back. "I'm afraid so. Aren't you relieved?"

Michele opened her eyes half-way. "Yeah. I guess I am."

The nurse smiled. "Besides, you've got someone to go home to, don't you?" She took out a folded up sheet of paper, a bullet hole blazed through it and light blood stains splattered all around it. She handed it to Michele, who raised her arm with all of her might and took it from her.

Michele managed a little half-smile. "Yeah. I guess I do."

"MEECHELE!"

Michele's eyes snapped open at the sound of her mother's broken English flying down the hallway and her father's heavy footsteps following close behind. She threw back the curtain in Michele's little compartment, and ran to her, crying and laughing all at the same time. She threw her arms around the injured woman, who was propped up in bed, an IV drip in her arm and her legs curled up underneath her. Her father joined in the embrace as well, crying out with joy with the two women.

After a time, her mother pulled away and wiped the tears from her eyes, and her father did the same. "Meechele," she said softly, "I was so afraid. My beautiful daughter. We're both so proud of you." The sound of French made the man in the bed next to her look over and roll his eyes, but she didn't care. She had missed her family so, had missed America.

Her father held up a basket with a bundle of cloth inside, and a large bottle of French champagne. "For celebration," he said. "We thought you'd be tired of hospital food, so..."

Michele smiled. "Thanks, Papa." She didn't mention that consumption of alcohol was strictly forbidden in her condition.

They talked for hours of Michele's experiences in Vietnam, about battle that ensued before she was injured, about how she had missed home. They cried, they laughed, they spoke of how much they loved each other. She hadn't felt so good in 11 months.

"I hope I'm not bringing up painful memories," said her father, "but how much do you remember from your accident?"

Michele shook her head. "Not much. I remember..." she paused for a moment, and stared down at her hands. "I remember my friend was shot. And then I was running, and then...I was shot." She looked up at her mother, who had tears in her eyes, and her father, who was listening intently. "But I remember thinking about something...a song. And...and Max was singing it." She shook her head to clear her mind. "I know, it sounds insane. And childish. But that's all I can remember, and then everything goes black."

Her mother laid a hand on her arm. "It doesn't sound childish. Mex..." she paused and looked deep into Michele's eyes. "Mex loves you very much. He wrote you dozens of letters before I finally told him you were in Vietnam. I have them..."

She reached into her purse and pulled out a fat expanse of white envelopes, all addressed to Michele. She placed them on the bed and smiled. "You can read them when you're ready."

A few days went by and Max's letters sat on the chair beside the bed, still unopened. She had thought about reading them hundreds of times, but couldn't bring herself to do it. The world had moved on since she and Max had last been together, and things had changed. Michele had changed. She hadn't seen him in a year and a half, and there was no telling just what those letter might say. She slowly reached for the stack, removing the first letter from under its rubber-band prison. She tore the envelope open, unfolded the letter, and read.

_Michele,_

_ It's almost been a year since I've heard from you. Are you alright? I understand what I've done and I respect your decision not to talk to me, but please, at least tell me you're alright. I'm an idiot for what I did. In my mind I can still see your face, wet with tears at what I'd done. I remember. I remember everything about you, the way you smell, the way you taste, everything. I love you so much, and I probably always will._

_Max_

Michele folded the letter and set it back on the table. She sat for a moment, thinking. _Things had changed_, she thought, _and this letter is proof. _She stared at the stack, entranced for a moment. Slowly, she reached over and grabbed another letter, tore it open, and began reading again.

Twenty letters later and the room was full of torn open envelopes. Her fingers were black with ink, and were covered with more than their share of paper cuts. She set the last one down on the bedside table, letting her head sink back into the pillow. She heard someone enter the room and sighed. "Listen," she said, "I really don't need any more of your shitty food. Go away, I'm a veteran you know." The person, whoever it was, stood still for a moment. Michele rolled her eyes. "Alright, I swear, if you don't get the hell out of here, I'll..."

She sat up, and her words failed her. Max was standing in the entry way, a bouquet of flowers in his hand.

"Max..." she said, swallowing and propping herself up. "I-I-I didn't know it was you." She cursed herself for stuttering like an idiot, and smoothed her hair back frantically.

"I didn't think so," he said, staring at the many apparatuses she was hooked up to. "You uh...you've really got the whole shebang here," he said, coming around to examine her IV machine.

She laughed weakly. "Yeah, well. It's not something I'm really that thrilled about." There was a pain in her chest, and she grimaced and rubbed the hole that now graced it. "But I guess it's my own fault."

He looked down at her for a moment, searching for something to say. "Uh...I brought you these," he said, quickly handing her the bouquet. "I know flowers don't really do much against bullets. If they did, the cops at those protests would really be in trouble."

She laughed and took them gently. "Thank you Max. That really was thoughtful of you."

He smiled and relaxed a bit, at ease with her reaction. He pulled up a chair and sat down. "So what happened?" He asked, his smile fading. "I mean, your mother mentioned something about you being hurt." He laughed again. "And I didn't think it was because of a ladies' case of the vapors."

She smiled faintly, but did not laugh. "No. There wasn't any room for that." She looked up at him, noticing that he had recoiled a bit. "We were in a trench and there were some...enemy forces or...whatever we're calling them nowadays...they were shooting at us and I was following with my camera." She was surprised that she wasn't crying, but Vietnam would do that to you. "My friend Sean was shot in the head, and everyone and everything around me was just...exploding. And then a stray bullet went through my back." She pulled down her hospital gown a bit to show him the scar.

"Oh my God...Michele, I'm so sorry," he pressed a gentle finger to the wound, and she smiled with pain and jerked away.

"You can't touch it for Christ's sakes!"

"I'm sorry! I wasn't thinking!"

Michele took a deep breath and let it out. "It's fine, just don't do it again."

There was a long pause. The ticking of the clock on the wall shattered the awful silence around them. Her EKG machine beeped, the sounds of nurses and doctors running back and forth and shuffling papers.

After what seemed like hours, Max spoke. "So...why did you go?"

She didn't speak for a long time, so long that he thought she hadn't heard him. "Because I wanted to show the world how ugly war is. So the people safe and sound at home would have more respect for their vets, and so that the people in Washington wouldn't be so apt to sacrifice them." She swallowed. "But mostly, I did it for my friends." She looked at him, looked through him. "I did it for James. And Sean. And Henry, the guy that sits at my table and orders a burger from me because he knows no one else will serve him." She reached out and stroked his cheek. "And I did it for you. Because I wanted you to be proud of me."

Max swallowed and looked down at the floor. "I am proud of you Michele."

There was another pause. "There's something else," she said. "When I was shot, there were a lot of things going on. Explosions, people screaming, and pain. Lots of pain." She let her hand slide down to grasp his. "But for some reason, the only thing I could think about was you. You, and how much I loved you. How much I still love you."

Max stood up slowly and leaned over her, and kissed her, his hands resting on her cheeks. "I love you too, Michele."

_Michele, my belle_

_These are words that go together well,_

_My Michele_

_Michele, my Belle_

_Sont des mots qui vont très bien ensemble,  
Très bien ensemble_

_I love you, I love you, I love you.  
That's all I want to say.  
Until I find a way  
I will say the only words I know that  
You'll understand._

_Michele, my Belle_

_Sont des mots qui vont très bien ensemble,  
Très bien ensemble_

_I need to, I need to, I need to._

_I need to make you see,_

_Oh, what you mean to me._

_Until I do I'm hoping you will_

_Know what I mean._

_Michele, my Belle_

_Sont des mots qui vont très bien ensemble,  
Très bien ensemble_

Michele smiled sweetly, then kissed Max. After everything she'd been through, everything, THEY'D been through, they were finally going to be together, until the day they died.

THE END


End file.
